


Canis Major

by SkartoArgento



Category: Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Affection, Dubious Consent, Knotting, Light AU, M/M, Werewolf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkartoArgento/pseuds/SkartoArgento
Summary: In Koller's lab, Pritchard and an old friend renew a relationship. Werewolf!Adam
Relationships: Adam Jensen/Francis Pritchard
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36





	Canis Major

**Author's Note:**

> Can I offer you some pornography in this trying time?

“Three _thousand_ credits for an out-of-support laptop? It’s not worth that – it's not worth half of that. You’re out of your mind if you think you can gouge me -” 

“Three thousand, American.” Behind the counter, the store owner glowered at Frank, hands a protective shield over the bulky computer. The glower had appeared when he first spoke, his accent a barrier to civility, apparently, but he would take some dirty looks if it meant being able to communicate. The last two tech stores he’d tried had no one who spoke English (aside from a woman behind the till of the second who could only ask him his name,) and a disappointing selection of technology. Not a huge surprise – Prague’s imports had taken a hit in the past few months. A laptop – even an ancient machine that looked like it wouldn’t boot up without some black magic – would catch the eye of anyone desperate. And he _was_ – but not necessarily three thousand credits worth of desperation. 

“One thousand. And even that’s ridiculous.” 

The owner didn’t even consider it. “Why are you insulting me like this? The price for everything is up, always up. You’re like those fucking Clanks, always wanting the free food, the free money. Maybe you have metal between your ears too, eh?” 

“I’m not asking for it for _free_!” If he didn’t rein himself in, the owner would put the laptop back in its crypt, regardless of how much he offered, and very possibly call the police to inspect the crazy American’s papers. A deep breath, and the flare of anger dwindled to a flicker. This was how the world was now. “I just want a fair price for it. Two thousand and... two hundred? I don’t have more than that.” 

For a long moment, the owner considered him, fingers rasping against stubble and bloodshot eyes squinting. Under that gaze, he lowered his shoulders in some attempt at appearing humble and defeated. With a ‘hmm’, the owner set the laptop down on the counter. “Two thousand and two hundred is good. But only -” and one of those hands slapped down on the laptop’s lid, the owner leaning in close enough for the fumes of vodka to reach him, “only because you’re not a _fucking clank!_ ” 

It would be a bad time to mention the cranial enhancements nestled in his brain. A worse time to mention that he’d worked (and, in a slightly less formal capacity, still sometimes worked) for the man who created many of the augmentations that the ‘clanks’ sported. A comment like that would get him arrested for sure, his flimsy paper shield proclaiming him an international reporter torn up and scattered on the street. Bio-scanners, once tipped off, would sniff out his secret. And then off to Golem City – if he was lucky. 

Not even two days into this Prague jaunt and already the place, the _people_ , leaned on that last nerve. 

The owner's eyes bored into him, shrewish and beady in their suspicion even when he handed over the credits. Freed from its hand-prison, the laptop looked even older than he'd first thought - dust speckled the case, and something that (oh, please God let it be) looked a lot like the stains of dried coffee ringed the sides of the touchpad. He pushed the lid down, closed it with a satisfying click, and slipped the laptop into his backpack, along with its charging cable. 

Less naked now that he had his own machine. If only he hadn’t been in a damn rush. 

He shrugged the backpack over his shoulder. The weight hung heavy over his back, one of the major disadvantages of old tech. If Jensen's pet aug-doctor would let him share a screen, this mess could have been avoided. 

A parting mutual glare at the owner, and he left the warmth and relative dryness of the tech store to step out into Prague's seasonal cold drizzle - something forgivable if it had at least been daylight. Eight hours on a plane and skipping through a few time zones into the future sent his internal clock spinning like a dazed bird. Yesterday - it must have been yesterday - his plane touched down at four am, Prague-time, and he'd navigated the trains and streets in an exhausted high. Finding the address Jensen provided, an old-fashioned, yet charming bookshop, proved challenging - almost as challenging as meeting Koller, a regular Doctor Frankenstein, by the various hanging aug limbs, and being told that sorry, Jensen went out on a mission, not in the building, probably not even still in the city. 

He'd come as a favour to that damn man and said man didn't even have the manners to show up. 

His watch had already adjusted to local time, even if his body hadn't. Eight thirty-nine pm. Another twenty minutes and the local police would be stopping everyone still on the street for a papers check. You had to admire the bureaucracy. 

Difficult to see with the streetlights in various smashed states, but at least apartments and stores still threw out an acceptable amount of light. He found his way to the main square mostly by memory. Figures shuffled in the hollow dark of alleyways; glints of metal swiftly covered by rags. New signs on the walls since yesterday - _say no to non-humans!_ \- the sickening clench of division cracking the city. 

_If_ _Sarif_ _was here he would_

No. Sarif wasn't the saviour of the world anymore. Couldn't even save his own company. Whatever those grand plans were for Rabi'ah, they'd never bring back the old image of Sarif Industries. 

_I'll give you your own office, Frank, your own damn floor, if that's what you want, just say you'll come work for me again. It'll be just like old times._

A week to think it over. Two days into weighing up the pros and cons, someone else bullied their way into his emails. Fine, he could do his weighing in Prague instead. 

Droplets stung his face. The wind tunnelled down the various alleyways and ripped at his jacket, sent strands of his hair whipping into his eyes, churned Prague's background murmur into a distorted roar. Buildings blurred into a constant grey smudge. Even wiping his face with the back of his hand didn’t help. Knowing his luck, he’d stumble half-blind into a cop, or an Aug with an axe to grind. 

A cheery pip from his infolink almost went missed under the wind. The channel tone could only be one person. He spat hair out of his mouth, tapped a finger against his temple to answer. “Koller, what do you want? I’m coming back as fast as I can, believe me – and no, I did not pick you up a _present_ – ” 

“Hey, Frankie!” Koller’s tone, tremulous and high with excitement, cut short the insult on his lips. “Uh, so... guess who came back?” 

“Well it’s about time!” Another wayward strand of hair blew into his mouth. He found the shelter of a store doorway, the shelves inside peppered with wooden crates, various cartoon fruits a hideously colourful contrast to the dull walls and floor. “Tell Jensen the next time he calls me over here for one of his missions, he’d better be here instead of galivanting off – ” 

“Frankie –” 

“ _Also_ tell him that when I get back he’d better cough up three thousand credits for the ridiculously ancient laptop I just had to buy – ” 

“Would you listen –” 

“ – if he’s not too busy brooding, that is – ” 

“He’s transformed!” Koller’s voice hitched up another octave, fear and a giddy excitement rolled into one. “Okay, Frankie? Gone real fucking furry in my dungeon! So, if you could get back here soon, man, yeah, that would be great!” 

Huh. 

Clouds shrouded the moon, but it wasn’t full, not even close. “What did you do?” 

“Me? I didn’t do anything!” The insulted squawk rattled through his infolink. “He came back, properly... human-shaped, right? And then just... bam!” 

“That’s _so_ helpful, Koller.” 

“I don’t know what else you want – he came down about fifteen minutes ago, a while after you left. And he was fine, said he wanted a quick tune-up. Got a bit of bullet in his arm or something. Man, I don’t even know. He’s – ” A clatter from the background, and Koller squeaked something in Czech. “He’s taking my _stuff_ , Frankie, putting it under my _chair_. It’s really weirding me out. Can you come back like... five minutes ago?” 

“Has he hurt you?” Dealing with any more of Jensen’s pitiful self-loathing would send him screaming right back to Detroit. Forget whatever world-saving mission was on the cards. 

“No. Growled when I tried to get my guitar back.” 

“Don’t try and take anything off him – do you really have no sense of self-preservation? You’re like a damn dodo.” He pulled his jacket collar up high, braved a step out. Drenched in a matter of seconds, of course. “Just don’t bother him and he’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a few minutes, have to make one stop first.” 

“...Why can’t you come back right now?” 

He heard the eyeroll in his own voice. “Well, I could, but he’ll be hungry. Better for all of us if I get him something that’s not the fried chicken beaks you like to eat.” 

“Man, you found one beak and you won’t stop talking about it.” A rush of breath from the other end of the link. Something close to sympathy sparked – chances were low that Koller had actually seen a werewolf in the flesh before. First time was always a kick to the adrenal glands. “Come back fast, okay, Frankie? I... don’t like the way it – _he_ keeps looking at me.” 

With a snort, he turned his face away from the wind. The nearest butcher’s shop was two streets over, automatically scoped out when he first ventured through Prague. “Trust me, I’ve been doing this for a while.” 

The _Time Machine_ ’s elevator rocked down to the lowest floor, and the door opened to the usual smells of hot metal and background lurk of sewer. New, however, was the overpowering, unique stink of wet dog. 

Under the hum of various machines came a low stream of despondent Czech, and the clank of Koller’s boots on the metal floor. He made his way through the foyer with an eye on the hanging aug hands and legs above - a plethora of horror movies ingrained a fear of those fingers twitching, _descending_ – and took in the scene of Koller’s ‘dungeon’. Next to the bed on his right – Koller, standing, face pale and eyes wide and pleading in his direction. No sign of Jensen. 

He raised an eyebrow. Koller shrugged, gestured with a metal hand to the lab area hidden from his view by a partial wall. No sound from beyond, except the low hum of Koller’s various machines. A bolstering breath sealed itself inside his lungs. How long had it been? Three years? A lot could change in that time. 

He passed the entrance to Koller’s lab and aimed for the makeshift desk he’d set up; a plywood plank on cinderblocks – far from the opulence of his desk at home, but it mostly got the job done. He faced the desk, back to the lab area, and slid out the laptop onto the desk-plank, made sure no moisture from his other package had escaped. While the newer machines could practically be dropped from several floors up, the older ones required more delicacy. At least, before he gutted it to make a better one. 

A snuffling from the lab behind, then the drag and thud of something heavy raising itself off the ground. Cold swept up his sides, crept over his shoulders to his neck and then down his arms, a sensation similar to alcohol evaporating off skin. Good old primitive sections of the brain, keeping him aware of the large predator in the room. 

He swung the backpack onto the chair, followed by his jacket. Koller sidled up to him in that nervous, twitchy way, and held out a towel. “Wet enough out there, Frankie?” 

Piebald with rust stains and smelling of sour damp, the towel was something else to be tolerated. For now. “If it gets any wetter we’ll drown down here like rats.” 

“I... don’t think that’s going to happen.” Koller’s smile broke through the anxious mask. “At least, it hasn’t happened _before_...” 

He mopped up his arms, then the back of his neck. A whole section of his hair had blown out of his ponytail, but he’d be damned if he was retying it right then. Only a few people had seen him with his hair down, and Koller wasn’t about to join that very exclusive club. Instead, he tucked the loose lock behind an ear with the towel while Koller’s eyes jolted between him and the lab. 

He wrung out what was left of his ponytail into the towel. “Don’t worry about him.” 

“I’m not exactly worried. Just, uh... you know?” Koller rocked the hand missing a finger, swept the palm upwards. “He keeps looking at me like I’m a nice juicy steak. Is he going to be getting back to... normal soon? I still need to get that bullet out of his arm. If it’s still there. And I wanted to just talk to him – I mean,” pink crept high into Koller’s cheeks, “see if he’s all right. I found some _crazy_ new augs inside his body, real high-tech shit. I was going to see if everything was... functioning as it should be.” 

“Please. If I have to watch you swooning over him, I’ll be back in Detroit before the rain stops.” What was it with Jensen attracting the mad ones? Must be all that dark brooding, the moody loner taking on the world. Sickening. “None of us have time for your pining.” 

Pink bled to red. “I’m not pining, or swooning -” 

“Of course not, because that would be a waste of _both_ our times.” Koller’s eyes went to the floor, lips pressed in an angry line. The blush spread from cheeks to ears. Goodie, he got to play the crush-crusher. The day couldn’t get any better. “Look, I’m telling you this for your own good -” 

A huff, hungry and irritable. 

From the lab, the tall bulk of werewolf regarded them over Koller’s chair. A full transformation – wolf snout, long claws, black fur that thinned at the chest and ran in a thick ridge down Jensen’s back. Short ears pricked in their direction. Only the eyes stayed vaguely human – small for the rest of the lupine face, but a bright blue, the same shade as before Jensen’s augmentation. If he’d been more interested in studying the effects of werewolf transformation on the augmented - the fact that metal limbs and organs shifted into flesh and blood, then back again - his notes would have filled an entire virtual library. 

Teeth bared at his approach, canines as long as his finger. He held out his hand, palm up. The teeth vanished behind lips again, and a wet nose pushed against his skin, snuffling. After a moment, a tongue swiped up his wrist. 

“Hello again. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The words were soft, intended for the wolf alone, but Koller retreated back to the bed and leaned forward to watch them, hands spread on upper thighs. An absurd sensation of being on display. The blush in Koller’s cheeks had vanished, made the circle of white around big brown irises even whiter. Intensity in those eyes, similar to Sarif’s when the engineers performed an intriguing experiment with augs. Dear God, he’d better not be looking at Sarif 2.0. 

Any anger he’d roused seemed to have faded with the blush. Koller grinned the bemused grin of a man faced with an expensive gift. “I’ve never seen... you know. A _real_ one before. He’s so big!” 

“They wiped them all out over here, didn’t they? Hard to believe with these claws and teeth, but being solitary probably doesn’t help against pitchfork-wielding mobs.” 

“I... _think_ they had guns during the Hunts. Pretty sure.” 

Jensen’s tongue swept over his hairline, licking away the moisture the towel had missed. How wonderful – a potent cocktail of damp hair, musty cloth, and now wolf saliva. _Parfum de Francis_. A damn good job he wasn’t aiming to impress anyone around here. “If you want food, you’ll put that tongue away, Jensen. I prefer water for my bath.” 

Koller’s eyes grew even wider (if that were possible) when Jensen acquiesced with a whine. “Uh, so can you, like, control him? Because that’s pretty awesome if you can – I didn’t know they can be tamed when they’re like this. D’you two ever go on missions together? You know, just let him off the leash to go eat some people? Oh man -- that’s gotta be useful! Did Sarif ever think about augmenting him when he was like this?” 

If he let Koller continue, the questions would never stop. As much as he’d like to satiate academic curiosity, Jensen’s eyes had started to acquire that _hungry_ glow. “It’s not a question of control. For instance, if he decided to leap over this chair and claw open your chest, I wouldn’t be able to stop him -- but he _won’t_ , Koller, don’t look at me like that. He’s still _Jensen_ , he just... likes to pretend that he doesn’t really remember what he’s like when he’s fully transformed. I think that’s just an excuse because he doesn’t want to admit his wolf likes me.” 

He moved back to his makeshift desk, Jensen at his heels, and tugged his bag open. “I’d try proving him wrong when he’s human-shaped, but, unfortunately, I’m not immune to augmented blades in my throat.” 

When he unwrapped the raw steak – a stringy thing with a distinctly greyish tinge – Jensen gave a gentle chuff, head stretched forward, and took it from his hand slowly before retreating back to the lab area and behind the chair. 

White fat stripped off under even whiter teeth. An awkward hybrid of hand and paw held the steak, claws punching straight through. After every bite, Jensen’s nose pressed against the meat, sniffing for the next best piece. 

“It’s more a question of trust.” Was he speaking to Koller, Jensen, or himself? “I trust him not to tear my throat out, and in exchange, he trusts me to make the right decisions and keep him safe. As with any animal, it’s equal parts body language, boundaries, and food.” 

“Huh.” Koller tilted his head, watched Jensen swallow down the remaining hunk of steak. “And that works for you both?” 

“So far. He’s a lot easier to manage like this if you can believe that. A lot less whining.” Sharp teeth flashed at him, muzzle wrinkled, but in the next second Jensen’s expression morphed into an open-mouth pant, tongue lolling out in a silent doggish laugh: _just kidding._ "Keep that up, Jensen, and you can find someone else to babysit you.” 

“Man, I’d do it.” A grunt, and Koller rose from the bed, lab coat flapping around his thighs. Augmented hands spread like a devout believer offering worship. An entirely different kind of hunger glinted. “He’s... amazing. Want me to take him off your hands?" 

Without an inkling of a warning, panic and fury slammed up his chest, tightened in his jaw like a wire. He bared his own teeth, a smile that wasn’t a smile. Intensity he couldn’t take back, and that sent a part of him recoiling in horror. Never had that sensation come so strongly, so immediately. _Jealous?_ Some part of his brain mocked him, _why wouldn’t you be? That little Aug doctor is a lot younger, Frankie, and knows his way around augmentations better than you. If Jensen decides to bond with him --_

Obsolescence. Replaced in the pack. And they didn’t give out severance packages for unofficial werewolf handlers. Where would he go? Back to Detroit to face Sarif and admit that Jensen ran with a new partner? 

He inhaled, held it down. His hands went behind his back. Their shaking would stop at some point if he just rationalised. “A close-up view of him using hostiles as chew toys isn’t ‘amazing’. Neither’s having him shake blood all over you when he’s done.” 

“I could deal with that, no problem!” And Koller flashed him one of those ‘trust-me-I'm-a-doctor' smiles. Judging by all the stains on the floor, blood was the least distressing bodily fluid that Koller saw on a day-to-day basis. 

“You couldn’t even stop him from taking your guitar, what makes you think you’d last a day?” 

“Hey, don’t be like that, Frankie. Jensen and I, we... have a special connection, you know? Both part of the exclusive replaced limbs club. He trusts me to help him out with all that fancy gear he has hidden away. I think I could handle him being all furry.” 

His sneer lost its teeth when Jensen licked across the back of his neck. A viscous drip of saliva ran under his jacket and tickled his spine. “Do you _mind_ , Jensen?” 

By the gentle chuff above his shoulder, Jensen didn’t mind a bit. Translating this excessive licking would take a little time and effort, but since it wasn’t an aggressive action it ranked rather low on the list. That time could be better spent resurrecting that damn laptop – and would be if Jensen hadn’t decided to transform. 

The werewolf buffeted against his side, staggered him into clipping his hip against Koller’s creepy chair. He hissed at the jolt of pain and shoved back, but – of course – his human muscles were no match against a furry brick wall, and those blue eyes stayed on Koller with the wolf’s prey-focus. “Oh, go ahead and ignore me, Jensen, you’ve only bruised me with your weight.” A jaw draped over his shoulder, too possessive for his liking. Maybe that was why Jensen was being so... pushy. Through the link, his feelings about Mr-Smart-Aug-Doctor must be loud and clear. Nice to know he wasn’t being completely passed over for a newer model – not by the wolf, anyway. 

Even under that predator stare, Koller drifted a little closer. Smart man, but with a child’s lack of sense. 

A warning rumble shivered through the air. Jensen hadn’t lifted his lips yet, though the growl itself was enough to freeze Koller still. An embarrassed half-laugh, and Koller stepped backwards, hands up as though facing a gun instead of claws and fangs. “Hey, I’m not going to hurt Frankie. Relax, Jensen.” 

“He’ll be relaxed soon enough. Or... whenever he decides to turn back. You’d better make some space on your bed when he does. After this long he’ll be out for hours.” 

“It's the whole energy transfer thing, right? I have a book here – _had_ a book here about it. Some collector snapped it up a while ago. I don't really remember –” 

“The longer he's like this,” Jensen pulled back from his waving hand before it caused a muzzle-collision, “the more energy gets sapped when he transforms back. Especially if he doesn't eat enough. I don't care how much you've read, you can't magically summon half a pig carcass for him. And takeout isn't going to cut it. Neither will a sliver of steak, but at least that'll keep him quiet for now.” 

Anyone else would have glared back or spat some sarcasm at his tone, but Koller's head tilted to the side, absorbing the information like paper with a drop of ink, eyes keen and sharp under the dusty smudge of sleep-deprivation. 

Sarif would have loved that. In alternate circumstances, if the universe upended itself, Koller would have been the one to babysit a werewolf – the one to sit in Sarif's office while Jensen removed each item of clothing. 

Something slick brushed the nape of his neck, startling a small jump out of him. Jensen's nose pressed again, insistent, and he ducked away, elbow preventing any further touches. Koller watched their strange dance with a loopy grin, traces of fear fading at his discomfort. “What? He just wants to play, Frankie!” 

“He's _bored._ ” That was loud and clear through their link, as clear as day - bored with a background irritation, an itch that wouldn't scratch right. “No forest around here to hunt in. No mission to terrorise local thugs. Just the waiting game until he decides to come back.” 

“You could throw a ball. Oh - or a stick!” 

“I could also put a leash on him, it would be equally as ridiculous.” 

Jensen butted him again, gripped his sleeve between knife-sharp canines and tugged with just enough force to move his arm. A litany of feeling, sensation through their link. Shapes of memories, trees in fog, blood in his mouth. 

One deep breath stopped the feelings. Gone were the days of driving over the border, up into the country, Jensen his usual surly self in the passenger seat for most of the journey. And then the electric, heady crackle of excitement when he stopped off on some dirt trail, the headlights catching a close loom of trees and the endless dark beyond. When Jensen shrugged out of that heavy black coat, their ritual began. 

_Stay here._

_Where ELSE would I go?_

The passenger door would shut. There would be a few seconds of silence, and then the headlights would catch a furry blur bounding into the trees. He never minded being left behind. Just gave him a chance to catch up on emails, or watch a few movies. Or sleep, there had been a lot of that too; never a problem for him, even alone on secluded trails in the dead of night. There was something worse than opportunistic serial killers or axe-wielding maniacs in the woods, and, luckily, it was on his side. 

Koller's eyes switched between them and the elevator. A swaying dance of indecision. “I need to get upstairs and make sure things are locked up and put away. Customers love to leave books wherever they like, you know? Drives me crazy, man! But after I can nuke some of those takeout leftovers and bring them down. Sound good?” 

Food-shaped peace-offerings would always be welcome. “Fine.” 

“Oh, and if you could uh, you know... get my stuff back, that would be awesome.” Koller’s eyes widened, wouldn’t look out of place on a begging puppy. For just a moment, a glimpse of the man who charmed Jensen. “Please, Frankie?” 

“Stop batting your eyelashes. I’ll do my best.” 

“Man, I knew I could count on you.” 

A final, tentative wave to the werewolf and Koller edged away. Eyes stayed on Jensen until the curve to the elevator hid them from view. 

He only let himself relax when the steady mechanical vibration hummed through the floor. Gears clanked up to the bookshop level and the hands hanging from the ceiling trembled in a dismembered wave. He sighed into the emptiness. “Count on me? Wonderful.” 

A cold nose poked at his hand, chased by a tongue that flicked through his fingers. The remnants of steak-juice vanished. Teeth nibbled at his palm – never the canines, though, only those small babyish ones at the front of Jensen’s snout – before he withdrew his hand, wiped it on his leg. “I don’t have any more. See? Nothing else.” 

Jensen stared that disbelieving dog-stare, as though he had hidden steaks in every one of his jacket pockets. 

“When you’re back to your old and annoying self, you can make your little doctor there bring you all the take-out you want. And if you... want to come back with me, I promise we’ll go out and you can eat all the wildlife. You can even throw another rabbit on my car. Okay, Jensen?” 

The tangle caught in his throat. Detroit seemed so very far away. 

The dome of a big head pressed into his side, nearly shoved him right off his feet again. His now-clean hand went under Jensen’s jaw, rubbed the narrow underside. A thick rumble vibrated his fingers, affectionate instead of threatening. “Doing that still won’t make food appear out of thin air.” 

Not like the rabbit that had appeared so long ago, flicked out of the gloom beyond sheets of rain, the metallic thud jolting him out of a doze. Even a few years later he still saw its soft fur through the windshield, flattening under the downpour like a child’s discarded toy. 

When Jensen, human-shaped, naked, exhausted and dripping, stumbled into the passenger seat a few moments after, he’d made his voice appropriately loud. 

_Jensen, what is THAT on my hood?_

A heavy, tired pause and Jensen flicked his eye-shields on. Insulting. _Rabbit._

_Okay? Why is it there?_

_I don’t know._ And the muzzy confusion there was enough for him to take Jensen seriously. _I think it’s supposed to be for you._

He’d tried to talk about it the next morning – even hauled a cup of coffee up from the cafeteria, for Christ’s sake – but Jensen clammed up, shrugged at his questions. Still took the coffee, but showed no enthusiasm for his interrogating efforts. 

Eventually, he had to stop trying to prise that clam open. 

Jensen’s coat half-buried the guitar, nestled it away like a hidden treasure. He stepped around Jensen to stoop and pick it up. Teeth marks scored the neck, dented the frets. Two snapped strings. A chunk chewed from the bottom, all the way through into the body cavity. Under his gaze, Jensen whined again, muzzle turned away but eyes darting to the guitar. 

“I imagine he plays atrociously, but did you _really_ have to destroy this?” He held the guitar up like court evidence – Exhibit A: One mangled instrument. Splinters sloughed to the floor. In the patient hum of Koller’s strange Frankenstein machines, he waited for a human answer. Still a wolf regarded him. “Why did you do it? Is it this place? Is it him?” The longing for an empty dirt road in the dead of night, and the not-quite loneliness, came so strongly his voice cracked for a second time. “And why the _hell_ aren’t you human yet, Jensen?” 

An apology came in the form of flattened ears, a tongue licking a wet black nose in deference. He turned away, picked up Jensen’s coat from the floor and threw it over the arm of Koller’s chair. Had they been apart too long – him wandering the ever-degrading streets of Detroit, metaphorically at Sarif’s heels; Jensen zipping around with the ever-fumbling TF-29 and stalking Prague’s sewers? 

He inhaled, held the breath until a hot ball formed in his chest. When he relaxed, that first rush of air almost smelled of pine needles and torrential rain. 

Jensen stared; anxiety pricked in every strand of fur, canines peeking beneath black lips. He’d seen those teeth shear skin, flesh, crack bones, and still, he reached his hand out, ran his palm up and down the length of snout. “I didn’t ask for this any more than you did.” 

But he’d never protested either. 

His hand was tolerated for a few seconds before being seized between a set of jaws. Pressure, but not enough to do more than leave red marks. He withdrew his hand and Jensen pranked backwards, stiff-legged and huffing, all slights forgiven. “I’m not in the mood to play, I’m afraid, Jensen.” 

Rags on the floor, hidden underneath the chair; a ratty lab coat more grey than white, an off-yellow shirt that smelled like the sewer, and one – no, two socks. The holes could have either been caused by Jensen’s teeth or Kollar’s lack of general clothes-care. 

It didn’t make _sense_. 

He stood with the stinking bundle in his arms, and tossed them onto the chair. One of the socks tried to slide back to the floor, but he caught it with one hand and set it on top of the pile. 

When he straightened this time, something hot and solid covered his back. Something else hot and a lot less solid lapped at the side of his neck. He winced, spun around. Came face-to-chest with Jensen. 

None of it made _sense_. 

“What is _wrong_ with you today?” Bracketed by chair and werewolf, he glared upwards. This close, and with a good foot extra to stare up at, the glare felt a little defensive, like a cornered cat trying to stare down a lion. “It’s not enough that I have to make a detour to find you food, or clean up your nest, _or_ wait out whatever is keeping you from transforming back, but I also have to deal with you being clingy? You never want to make things easy for me, do you, Jensen?” 

_Nest, you said NEST, you said -_

Jensen mimicked his earlier sigh, a loud and slow huff to show peaceful intentions, no danger, but the crowding and the pricked ears said something different. 

His brain wanted nothing more than to go through every little detail, gather up all the clues, examine the evidence. To _click_ with an answer. There _wasn’t_ danger, that was true. But something else, something like the rabbit on the hood of his car. That itch that wouldn’t scratch, the irritation that clung to their link like dew on a spider’s web. 

_I think it’s supposed to be for you._

_Nest, you said -_

“Nest.” At some point he’d closed his eyes. Without the sense of sight, his hearing picked up on the rush of breath above his head, the slow beat of heart inches away. Warmth suffused the air between them, courtesy of those few extra degrees of werewolf body temperature. “Nests are made for shelter and protection.” If he said it out loud, maybe his brain would struggle out of its numbing quagmire. “And to... raise young.” 

_Raise young, right, Frank._ Why did his inner voice sound so much like Sarif? Why could he see him there, scotch in one hand and a baseball in the other? _You’re missing a step though, aren’t you, son? A real important step._

Ah, yes, there was the click, the _Eureka!_ moment. It all made sense. 

He’d blundered easily into all the ways Jensen could see him as a potential mate. 

The rabbit, its fur sodden and eyes black and staring. An offering, a gift. The times he’d made offerings of his own, fed and provided. The confidence he’d had to touch, to command, to protect. 

And, as he’d so happily bragged to Koller, the trust. 

Jensen made a noise against the top of his head, a sound he’d never heard before. A whine, but lower in the throat. More of a croon. Hair prickled on his arms, then across the back of his neck. The musty canine smell should have been overpowering this close, but instead, it tinged with something sweet and natural, like windfall apples on the farm of his childhood, and the hot electric scent of burnt wires in his office. New Hampshire and Detroit, the countryside and the big city. Fled from one to the other, and never looked back 

The tremble in his voice knocked any lingering confidence. “I think there’s been... a mistake, Jensen. I didn’t – I didn’t realise what this was.” Behind those eyes, Jensen – human Jensen – would see him cower, the carefully cemented structure of their relationship crumbling. Humiliating. “Why don’t you step back, and I’ll go see if I can intercept those leftovers. Koller can go and find his own food.” 

His latest mistake in the long line of mistakes that led to that point was trying to push Jensen away; a small brace of his hands against fur. 

That croon again, an edge of demand in the note. His hands shot back to his sides. Another genius idea of his. Yes, touch the werewolf again, give him even more ideas. 

A cold nose left a moist trail up the side of his neck. Enthusiastic snuffling tickled his ear. His hands found the arm of Kollar’s chair, squeezed until his fingers ached. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet those eyes – another blunder to add to the list. Their tentative pack hierarchy reversed itself, reaffirmed with every second he didn’t challenge Jensen. 

Time trickled down like fine sand. 

_I should do something._

Jensen huffed into his neck, pressed closer. The warmth intoxicated, a heavy blanket against the chill of the lab. 

_Any second now, Frank, if you want to move._

Burnt-out wires and apple windfalls. Would everyone in his position smell those things, or were they triggering a specific area of his brain? 

_Don’t try and figure it out, you idiot, just do something._

And if he didn’t? If he submitted fully, followed the natural progression of things and let the werewolf do... whatever he wanted to do? 

A pissed-off Jensen. Or worse, a disgusted Jensen who wanted nothing more to do with him. Who pointed an augmented finger and said _that’s him, that’s the guy who can’t just walk out of a goddamn_ _room._ _That’s the guy who let a werewolf put the moves on him because he thought that a dead bunny was a wedding gift. Send him to the nearest nuthouse and keep him away from anything furry._

He squinted up. Jensen crooned again when their eyes met, and nuzzled into the junction of his shoulder. A thickness caught between them and pressed heat through his shirt, into his stomach. 

Oh, the dilemmas he found himself in. 

“Unbelievable. As if you couldn’t be a bigger problem. And now what? I let you... and you transform back?” A shiver of agreement through their link. His pulse pounded in his throat, his chest. How horrifying to discover that the concept, the image, wasn’t that horrifying at all. 

“This is your own fault. I just want you to remember that afterwards.” 

An impatient snout against his shoulder: _turn around._

With the blood high and singing in his ears, he obeyed. 

His forearms braced on the arms of Koller’s chair, and the sight of the rest of the room snapped back a little reality. Koller, just meters away upstairs, stalking amongst the bookshelves, could return at any moment and see what they were doing, what _he_ was doing. 

_So, hurry up and do it, Frank,_ Sarif said with a roll of eyes, _you’re not so damn socially inept that you need a diagram._

Not a diagram, but a warmup would be nice, maybe a moment or two to get his head wrapped around the whole thing. As a general rule, and on the rare times it actually applied, he didn’t let things like this happen on first dates. 

Sarif smirked, half-empty whisky glass in hand. _Technically, the first date was years ago._

Yes, all the way back in Sarif’s office, high above Detroit. He’d been Summoned – capital S intended – to meet the new head of security -- a man he’d watched that morning being led by a glowing Doctor Reed through the lobby. He knew the man’s background, had gone through all the dirt with a fine toothcomb and hadn’t liked what he saw. Dressed in black. Moody. If they wanted someone like that (he’d sneered to anyone who walked in the vicinity of his office) they could just hire teenagers for a lot fewer credits. 

When he told Athena this, she raised her eyebrows and told him to be nice, before buzzing him into Sarif’s domain. 

Just the three of them in that office. At the time he’d thought nothing of it. 

Jensen had been about what he expected - at first anyway. Serious, grumbling, looked about two seconds away from finding a raincloud to brood under. The only interesting thing that caught his gaze had been those eyes: a startling sky-blue that didn’t quite match the rest of the face, like an artist had dedicated colour to them before deciding to switch to a flat monochrome style. 

They’d shaken hands, both grips as firm as could be polite. When released, he turned to Sarif, said something about Jensen not being Belltower, not even being Sharp Edge. A miracle Jensen had even been a cop. And before Sarif could reply, Jensen was in there first with a growl: _S.W.A.T._ _Kinda_ _surprised you didn’t know that, Jailbird._

Under his bristling, he’d been very slightly impressed. 

They’d all sat down with a drink (and his interest rose a notch when Jensen had no qualms about taking a straight Scotch from his new boss) and Sarif droned on about expectations, the company ethos. All throughout, those blue eyes studied him like a predator in the bushes picking out a herd member. Fine with him – he wasn’t prey. 

It didn’t surprise him when he finally broke his little stare-down with Jensen to see Sarif at one of the windows, arms folded, back to them, observing Detroit like a God might observe its subjects. A natural silence draped over the room. He would have resumed scowling, but Sarif’s head tilted, a general about to give an order. _Adam, want to get this over with?_

Alarm bells rang faintly below his stomach _._

Jensen stood, all fluid and glaring grace. No pause and no stopping to trade a few more barbs – that long black coat came off, draped over the back of Jensen’s chair. Then the stab-proof vest. Then the shirt underneath that. 

Alarm bells? More like alarm _sirens._

When Jensen’s fingers started on the pants zipper, his own fingers tightened ever so slightly around the glass of Scotch. 

Sarif's reflection watched. 

Shoes, socks, pants and underwear soon joined the rest of Jensen's clothing. After every item, his fear, and confusion, rose a notch. He stayed sitting, and by some miracle kept his eyes from straying too far below Jensen's chest. He found himself squeezing the glass to a near-breaking point, all the time aware of Sarif's mirrored eyes on him. _I see why you hired him, David,_ he'd said, voice remarkably steady, _but I hope you're not expecting me to stick around, or join in._

_Frank, just watch._

The air shifted. It was a subtle change in pressure, but it prickled the back of his hands, crept up his throat. Panic nearly shot him out of the chair, all the way back out of the door, but a stronger sense of curiosity pinned him. The lines of Jensen's shoulders warped. Arms bulged with impossible growth. Jensen's head tilted and their eyes met. The eyes didn't change, but the skin around them darkened. The darkness spread; white skin eaten by a what looked like brown leather. Jaw bulged, stretched, and Jensen must have smiled, because all he saw was teeth and teeth and _teeth_. 

For one brief, clenching moment he thought he was watching someone die of some horrible disease, right there in Sarif's office. 

Hair thickened, multiplied, engulfed. A gristly snap made him jump – the crack of knees switching direction. Claws emerged from a no-longer-human hand. Things slowed when the tail came, the last bits of human fading away. 

Tall before, towering now, the werewolf shook itself like a freshly-wet dog, from tip to tail. Small strands of fur floated down to the floor. 

Their eyes met again, and something else was in charge. 

He'd stood at some point, abandoned his glass on the table. His pulse beat hard at his throat. The werewolf took a cautious step towards him, head cocked, muzzle raised and sniffing. Sarif’s voice droned in the background, words muffled against the race of his own brain. It wasn’t fear that kept him frozen. Jaws parted and he expected a snarl, or one of those long, moaning, horror-movie howls, but a tongue appeared instead, licked around that elongated mouth. A small huff followed, a polite noise. 

Epiphany jolted, as sudden as static discharge. _You’re hungry._

Sarif’s smile would forever be burned into his memory. 

_Nice job, Frank. Looks like you just got promoted._

Resident werewolf handler wasn’t exactly something you could put on your resume, not unless you wanted a brick through your window, or fake silver bullets in the mail. Primitive fear drove people to an insane rage – no matter the truth behind the situation. Jensen would have died to protect them, and they would have done their best to kill him. Hardly fair – but then again, nothing about this situation was _fair._

Kollar’s lab blurred, then sharpened when adrenaline spiked his senses. Jensen rested over his back, nose in the nape of his neck and that long tongue exploring under his shirt collar. The chair sank a few inches, but it was designed to deal with thrashing Augs who had more than the usual amount of hardware grafted to their bodies. It could take his weight, Jensen’s weight and... whatever they were going to do. 

Pressure trailed down his spine, the hard inhales and soft exhales warming and cooling the skin under his shirt. Jensen’s weight dropped from his back. He stayed clenching the chair with numb fingers. For once, his brain failed. No more evidence or clues to examine. No theories shuffling like cards in a deck. Just the smell of shorted electric circuits and fall orchards. 

A snout pushed into the gap under his jacket and waistband. Teeth tugged at his belt so hard his death-grip relented a moment. Growls vibrated the air, throaty and impatient, and the same epiphany he’d had back in Sarif’s office unfurled again – although it really didn’t take a genius to work out what the werewolf wanted. 

Fingers operating on some other level of existence, he yanked the belt open, popped the button of his pants. 

_Did you know this would happen, Sarif?_ The suspicion rose like a leviathan from the water, a sudden and looming probability. _Did you both talk about it over your expensive whiskey, sitting on your expensive chairs with the baseball playing on your expensive screens behind? Did you get a kick out of discussing the details?_

The spectre of Sarif in his head stayed silent, swirling the whiskey over ice and studying him with even colder eyes. 

His fingers tightened on the chair. 

A clumsy paw-hand combination scratched across one hip. Cold air intruded on bare skin. Then a slow, deliberate tug on the other side. 

Even through a dry mouth and thudding pulse he could speak. “For God’s sake, Jensen.” One slide of his hands and his pants and underwear caught down around his lower thighs. “If I wait for you it’ll take forever.” 

More snuffling, this time in his ear. Jensen crowded at his side, nuzzled into his hairline, paw-hands gentle on his arm and shoulder. Reassuring, checking for any signs of distress. If Koller came down and saw them like this there’d be plenty of distress. That would make working together afterwards exceedingly awkward. Or maybe Koller would just take notes, record away on that annoying camera that magically appeared at every opportunity. _Hey, Frankie, tell me how it feels._

No, not even Koller would stoop so low. Maybe. The best he could hope for was a horrified stammer, a hasty retreat back upstairs. Then the non-conversation afterwards. The old game of ‘let’s pretend nothing happened’. 

Yeah, he’d be so lucky. 

Heat pressed against his exposed hip. Another commanding huff, and he let himself lean forward, relinquishing his hold on the chair and letting his forearms take the weight instead. His reward was a tongue against his cheek. Wet _and_ sticky. Lovely. 

A nuzzle, meant to comfort, and Jensen moved back behind, out of sight. His heart rate kicked up a notch. Reality and unreality beat alternately, an out-of-rhythm drum that kept him all too present about the situation and then removed, floating, a moment later. Muscles tightened, his whole body a steel cable just waiting -- 

A press of cold nose against his lower back. Fur brushed over his thighs. By some miracle, he kept his breath steady. 

That tongue drew a line of heat over the knobs of his spine and down to his tailbone. Then, without the usual human preamble or teasing, slipped down between his ass. 

He bit the back of his wrist. Hard. 

The lapping wasn’t slow or gentle – it overstimulated; each touch an electric jolt that jumped straight between his legs. Methodical. Obscene. And he kicked his pants off one leg, spread himself even further for more. 

Saliva tickled down the inside of his thighs. _Makes sense_ , the rational, observational side of his brain said, untouched for now, _for logistics._ Also explained all the damn licking. Salivatory glands working overtime to get him... ready. Should jot that down in his next email to Sarif – _werewolves are oddly conscientious for eight-foot-tall killing machines._

His own teeth dug deeper into his skin. Any noise that started in his throat became a grunt, held back from being a full moan or a whine by a thin veil of self-control. If he started, he wouldn’t stop – if he started he might beg, and then how the hell was he supposed to look Jensen in the eye afterwards? No, better to be quiet, more plausible to claim that he was just doing his job, that he just wanted Jensen to hurry up and change back. _Even if you know that’s not true, Frank,_ Sarif piped up again. 

_Shut up, Sarif, I can’t think about you right now, I can’t –_

With a curl and a sudden pressure, Jensen’s tongue breached him. 

The world stopped existing. 

A scream then, from outside or inside. Eyes squeezed shut. His back arched, and his body became a live wire, energy quivering through every muscle and nerve. A thin needle of pleasure from elsewhere – his erection brushed the seat of the chair. At exactly what point he’d gotten hard he didn’t know, but like the tongue pulling in and out of his body, he accepted it. 

The grunting had stopped too, each moan wrenched from his throat without pause. That tongue was long and ceaseless, and the further he arched - the further he _spread_ like some kind of nymphomaniac – the faster the tongue thrust. 

He could come, right then and there, just from that movement. The people he’d taken home from nights out at one of Detroit’s many upstanding bars were nothing but amateurs. 

Slight creaking from around the corner. In his panic, he startled and tried to pull away from the chair, away from Jensen, but a disapproving grunt from behind stopped him dead. A few more creaks, but was the elevator actually running? No. More like shifting, the way old buildings did. The _Time Machine_ counted as an old building, there’d be sounds he ignored before that magnified now because of the situation. 

Koller, reliably distractible, had probably unearthed some interesting treatise and forgotten all about the werewolf in the basement. A good thing for all involved. 

Another curl inside him, and all those thoughts broke into nothingness. 

“Jensen...” Even his voice was a far-away echo, muffled by the high whine of surging blood. _“Jensen...”_

At his name, the werewolf stopped licking. Weight on his lower back, rubbing, heat from a heavy panting. His own panting sank into his jacket sleeve. 

He’d expected a growl or some other violent noise, but Jensen stood and leaned over his back in silence, jaw on his shoulder. Paws clamped around his hips. All that extra werewolf-weight settled down his back, braced by nothing but his own arms. Jensen adjusted, pulled back slightly. The paws tightened their grip. 

_You’re depraved._

That sneer from his inner voice. He would have smiled, maybe even laughed at it, but Jensen slid inside his body in one long, continuous stroke that hitched his breath and startled a moan from his throat. Thicker than he expected, and so much warmer than his own body temperature that it scalded. He shivered, sent a sneer back at the voice in his head. 

_Of course. And?_

No reply, and none forthcoming – especially when Jensen’s hips shifted against his own and pulled half the werewolf’s cock out, then thrust it back in. 

Depravity was sorely underrated. 

The room slid out of focus. Jensen moved again – and didn’t stop. Slow at first, with fur soft and warm against his thighs, the heavy heat above shielding him from the miserable chill of the room. An ache started, deep and pleasant, when those hips sank as far as they would go, and for fleeting seconds he was _full,_ stretched to take anything Jensen gave. The whine from his throat came needy, submissive. _Where you should be -_ the link or understanding or _whatever_ told him without words - _squirming underneath._

Fine. No complaints – not from him, especially not when Jensen crooned over his shoulder, pulled back and then pushed in hard again. 

Maybe human-shaped Jensen would mock how easily he let the werewolf take him - but a choice between their delicate pack dynamic and this? He'd offer his empirical research of dominant body language on a bloody heathen altar any day. 

Strands of hair fell over his face, worked loose from his ponytail by Jensen’s movements. No spare breath in his lungs to blow them out of his sight. Every thrust was a shock, driving air out of his chest, his panting like the last desperate gasps of asphyxia. Acceleration of hips. Paws locked him in place, almost, _almost_ brushing his erection. 

Koller could keep the man; he’d take the beast any day. 

_“Yes,”_ his whisper came dry and stuttering, wrenched from his throat after the heat driving inside his body paused, _"please don’t stop, don’t --”_

Another stretch, unyielding, more than he could take. 

His babbling shifted to a scream, muffled by his jacket sleeve. The swelling ( _knot, Frank, call it what it is, why don’t you?_ ) insisted with a hard pressure – painless, but with an intensity that sent black spots spinning in front of his eyes. Jensen’s croon filtered through the blood pounding in his ears, half-comforting, half-encouraging. _I can’t,_ he wanted to turn around and say, _that’s absolutely not going anywhere,_ but Jensen’s hold tightened, and one of those paws caught around his erection, pressed it against his stomach. A thick fuzz of pleasure rasped from between his legs and all the way up to his throat. His scream died, became a series of breathless mewls instead. 

Hips pressed again, and this time he shifted shaking knees further apart, focused on the rough touch of fur and hot skin instead. 

_This is what you_ _wanted,_ the voice that had called him depraved piped up. _You wanted the_ _beast,_ _you got the beast._

Yes, and he wanted so much more of it as well. 

The knot slipped inside when he stopped resisting. Beyond any sensation he’d ever felt – not just the stretch and the fill, but the shock of intimacy that came with it. A warm pulse that travelled along whatever inadvertent bond was born in Sarif’s office. A whine vibrated through his shoulder blade. Jensen still moved his hips, jolted the throbbing heat inside. 

A rush from his lower stomach, some liquid pressure filling an empty space with heavy gushes of molten heat. Forearms tightened, locked him in place. His legs couldn't move, even if he wanted them to. His own cry sounded very far away, harmonised with a croon from the werewolf. Warmth sealed inside, a scalding pleasure that shot straight to his cock - 

Rough palms grazed sensitive skin, and it was enough. 

His climax surged, an unstoppable wave. Desperate, his hands scrabbled against the chair arm, knuckles white. His cries stopped, caught behind clenched teeth. It pulled him under. Drowned him in pleasure, a few seconds of clenching and releasing, his own come white and bound in dark fur. A tongue against the side of his neck, and a dip became another crest, another impossible peak his body strained to reach. His moans sounded more like sobs. 

A final clench, one last rush. He collapsed forward, legs trembling as the adrenaline faded. 

His forehead stayed on the back of his hand for a long time. Sweat cooled, replaced by the cold damp. 

Depraved. Thoroughly and inescapably. 

Breath came loud, drowned out any other noise. 

A shift behind. The arms that still clutched him were hard, furless, fingers blunt and palms contoured with unnatural ridges. 

Weight collapsed over his back, skin pressing down into his own. Warm metal nudged his thighs, moved that waning hardness inside his body. A palm disappeared from his inner thigh to the nape of his neck, crushed his forehead even harder against his own hand. 

The violence of withdrawal shot pain through his lower back. His whimper drowned under the deep, rough exhales from behind. The pleasant after-orgasm sensation rolled back and left a thread of anxiety in its wake. Out of the two, he’d trust the wolf to be less aggressive than the human. 

Weight slipped from his back. Something heavy hit the floor with an inelegant thump. 

Without the support, his own knees buckled, feet tangled in the lasso of his pants and underwear. A hand on the floor stopped what would be termed a ‘collapse,’ and his thigh took the impact rather than his spine. Muscles ached, and he found himself on his back, Koller’s sickly florescent lab lights in his eyes and the dirty ceiling beyond. 

Sweat dried, chilled his exposed skin. His panting eased and slowed into huffs. The emotions over the link faded like stars at dawn -- still there, but unreachable while the wolf slept. 

Three deep inhales and his breath slowed. Tempting to just lie on the cold metal floor, waiting out the minutes, but his job wasn’t over yet. 

Jensen lay a few feet away, one hand on the plane of lower stomach and the other at his side. Eyeshields retracted, but eyes stayed closed. Asleep already, maybe, all energy lost to the wolf. Chest rose and fell, muscles tightening and relaxing. Under Jensen’s hand, the dense patch of pubic hair started and led down to a wilted cock, overly pale against the black metal of augmented thighs. Heat crept into his cheeks – ridiculous in the aftermath of their actions – and he tugged his gaze back up to Jensen’s face. 

A sliver of green and gold eyes. 

Panic jolted through his stomach, and Jensen, horrifically perceptive Aug that he was, would see that on his face. 

He tore his gaze to the other side of the lab and untangled the mess of material around his ankles. Underwear and pants slid back up just fine, but raising his hips brought awareness to the _open_ sensation between his legs, and the growing leak of warm liquid under his ass. Someone would have to clean that, and his own contribution on the chair, up. _Koller_ would have to clean that up. Maybe they could play it off as a coolant spillage. 

His knees, back, and thighs all protested when he rolled over, and practically screamed when he wobbled to his feet by making judicious use of the chair again. Next time it was a bed or nothing. 

_Next time?_

If Jensen didn’t murder him... maybe. 

A quick second to gather himself and make sure all limbs were in working order. Jensen’s eyes had closed again at some point, exhausted purple crescents bruising underneath. Couldn’t have him sleeping on the floor naked – Koller's excitement would deafen them all. 

He nudged the tip of his shoe into Jensen’s side and got a slow, sleepy groan in reply. 

“Jensen?” Another nudge. “Come on. Let’s get you up.” 

Bending down _hurt._ Jensen’s hand was deadweight in his own, and no matter how much he tugged, raising more than a shoulder off the floor wasn’t happening. “I need at least _some_ participation here, Jensen. I don’t have the muscle to haul you up by myself, and I doubt you’ll be happy to wake up there. Come on. A few seconds of activity, and then you can sleep as much as you want.” 

Whatever part of that got through, Jensen’s eyes squinted open once more. Movements reminded him of a newborn animal, stiff and slow. A few long seconds before Jensen managed to sit up, hands pressed flat on the floor, swaying like a drunk. Those eyes never moved from his face. The scrutiny sent a bizarre itching down his spine. He cleared his throat. “That’s better.” 

Jensen didn’t reject his touch when he leaned down and pulled him up. A brief stagger forward, and the sudden weight against his side reminded him too much of the wolf. One arm went around Jensen’s shoulders. His other hand supported the arm draped behind his neck. 

Sarif’s voice floated in a memory; _take care of him for me, son._

If this didn’t count, nothing would. At least it reaffirmed his long-lost job – going from a huge wild predator to a very vulnerable state left the werewolves little choice but to have a human protector. 

He steered Jensen past the chair. “You’re late, by the way. I had to be left alone with only your doctor for company. One more day and I would have throttled him with one of those ceiling-hands. Also, you owe me for a laptop – when I got your message, I barely had time to pack. I -” 

“- Dashed... all the way here.” Jensen’s voice couldn’t have sounded any more exhausted. “For me, or... for... _him?_ ” 

The grim snort that came from his mouth wasn’t an attractive noise. “I trust the wolf to get into far less trouble than you, Jensen. But since Sarif still pays me for this glorified babysitting, why not?” 

“I want you... arrested if that’s what you call _babysitting_.” Tiredness always turned Jensen’s voice to gravel. 

They reached the sofa bed in a half-shuffle, half-drag. He reached down to strip the musty cover off the mattress, then let Jensen’s arms release him. He kept hold so that Jensen didn’t slam down and destroy the metal frame, and pushed until all limbs were safely in the bed instead of draping over the side. “Here.” He settled the cover over Jensen. No tucking in, that would be a step too far. “Koller will have to sleep on the floor. Or upstairs.” 

Gold and green eyes unfocused, fatigue winning its war. “You?” 

“I won’t sleep.” A chair nearby, rickety and woodwormed, but sufficient. He dragged it next to the head of the bed and sat. Never mind the damp sensation. “I never did, afterwards.” 

“He... smelled you.” The gravel had ground to a dusty whisper. “When I came back here. Popped... straight up.” 

Something clenched his throat. His eyes found his hands, and he kept the smile from his face by clenching his teeth together. An interesting rush of emotions that he could examine later. “Go to sleep, Jensen.” 

An affirmative grunt, and Jensen rolled over, back to him, curves of muscles peeking out from the cover. A final sigh, and then the slowing, steady rhythm of sleep-breathing. 

Minutes trickled by in silence. The ache between his legs faded. Whatever kept Koller busy upstairs was a blessing. Unless there were cameras. 

Goddammit, there had better not be cameras

Jensen murmured something, tugged the cover up closer like a child against a horrible dream. Without hesitation, he reached across, let his palm brush against dark brown hairs streaked through with grey. Nothing like wolf fur. 

_Depraved._

His phone in his hand. Sarif’s email on the screen waiting for an answer. 

It took a moment to start typing, his heart thudding the entire time. So long Detroit, hello dark, rainy, Aug-doctor-infested Prague? 

But more of the wolf, its affection undying, even if its human side would happily have four thousand miles between them. 

The smell of windfall apples and electric charge still lay heavy on his skin. No read-through of the email necessary, no agonising over sentences and tone. 

He hit SEND and sat back, counted down the time until Jensen woke. 

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon of Pritchard growing up on a farm and hating it will always be constant for me.
> 
> Sorry for being so long between fics. I needed to breathe.


End file.
